


bound to fall (but i'm hoping you'll fall into me)

by thompsborn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Tags will be added as the fic progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsborn/pseuds/thompsborn
Summary: It means something. Everything, maybe. Most things, at the very least.(five times it isn't and one time it finally is)
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Comments: 23
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i decided that i wanna do a 5+1 fic, came up with an idea for one, and wrote the first chapter in one sitting
> 
> title is from epilogue by keaton henson, which does not fit the vibes for this fic at all but it is a very good sad song that i love and keaton henson has a way with lyrics and always tugs on my heart strings so i highkey recommend listening to his music

**i. photography in the field**

It’s been two months since they met.

By most standards, two months isn’t very long, but, sometimes, those eight weeks can feel like a lifetime. Sometimes, certain people fall together so seamlessly that it’s almost as though they’ve known one another for centuries, era after era, written in the timeline of the stars like a prophecy that was always intended to come true, like a gift from the universe itself, manifested in the form of two simple people.

Two boys, only months apart in age, meeting eyes across the room on the first day of classes. Two boys, different pasts, different lives, different homes, coming together as strangers sharing a smile.

It starts with small talk during peer discussion, when they seem to naturally gravitate toward each other, using the excuse that they have no friends in this class but they can recognize a friendly face when they see one. The course is a simple one, much to easy for both of their advanced minds, but it’s a prerequisite for the harder courses they’ll need to take for their majors down the line, so the class is a necessity. Only a week into the school year and they sit together with the rough draft of their first papers in hand and they don’t even talk about the papers, somehow falling into simple questions, first their names, basic introductions naturally falling into getting to know one another, feeling as if the person they were looking at was someone they were always meant to know. And it works out, too, because their professor tells them that the peer review draft and a second draft need to be turned in the on that upcoming Friday, and the fact that they hadn’t actually done anything during the class gave them a reason to meet outside of it.

Getting coffee to do the peer reviews turns into just getting coffee for the hell of it, which turns into a conversation of a movie coming out soon that they’re both excited to see, which turns into a timid suggestion of, maybe, if it would be okay, going to see it together, which turns into not-a-date and sharing popcorn and giggling under their breath when the other murmurs a joke. The development is fast yet stretches to last forever, each moment another infinite amount of minutes tied together to strengthen the rope that keeps them attached. It’s a second not-date and an invitation to movie night with friends and staying up until two in the morning studying together for a test that they would have aced anyway.

It’s Peter Benjamin Parker and Harley James Keener and everything they were meant to be.

Two months is not a long time, but maybe, in some ways, it is.

Harley thinks of this as they meander through the trees, reaching out idly to brush fingertips against the soft pedals of the flowers they pass. It’s, surprisingly, silent between the two of them now, much different than how it usually is, but the silence is only with them, not with the world that surrounds them. The wild life is alive and rustling around them, branches shaking in the breeze and the distant sounds of creatures living in the bushes and the trees. It’s peaceful in a way that reminds Harley of home, far different from the sounds of the city. He doesn’t regret the move, but being surrounded by nature again is a nice feeling.

“It’s not much farther,” Peter tells him, camera dangling from his neck and hair messily askew thanks to the wind. It’s fairly sunny for a mid-November afternoon, but they’re both wrapped up in a couple layers because the sun isn’t actually offering much warmth, the wind bringing a biting chill through the air that seeps through fabric and causes goose bumps to rise along bare skin. Harley is walking a foot or two behind Peter, mostly because he’s not all that sure where they’re going, but also because it’s kind of nice, having the excuse of following his lead to be able to look at him with very little reserve.

Peter Parker is quite beautiful, Harley thinks. He’s soft edges and warm eyes and a gentle curve of a smile that shapes like a crescent moon to match the stars that sparkle in his iris’s when he talks about something that he’s passionate about. He’s torn jeans and soft sweatshirts and old, ratty converse that he doesn’t want to replace, but he’s also plaid button up shirts under thick sweaters and glasses pushed up the slope of his nose and a dumb, dopey sort of grin after he laughs for far too long at a joke that wasn’t that funny.

Two months is not very long, but it’s plenty enough for Harley’s heart to start picking up speed.

“How much farther?” Harley asks, if only to prevent being quiet for too long and drawing Peter’s suspicion—because that’s something else that Peter is, suspicious, about anything and everything. It’s as if he expects everything to have a motive and he plans to find out what it is. Harley often wonders what life has done to make Peter believe such a thing, but two months is not enough to ask questions like that.

Peter hums, steps up onto a tree stump and rises up to the tips of his toes to look around. The path that they’ve been following splits into two only a few feet ahead, and it only takes a short moment before Peter is pointing towards the path on the left and responding with, “That way. Only a couple more minutes.”

Harley doesn’t mind the walk, wouldn’t have complained if they had another half hour to go before reaching their destination, but he can’t deny that he’s looking forward to whatever little escapade he’s been invited to. He doesn’t know much, other than the fact that Peter knows a place that he wants to get some good photographs of, but that he really does not want to go there alone. Harley does not know the significance of the location, but he can feel that it matters, the fact that Peter does not want to go alone and decided to invite Harley, of all people. Not Ned, who is Peter’s kindest, most reliable best friend, or MJ, who is undoubtedly Peter’s platonic soulmate, or Harry, who knows more about Peter than anyone else does, or Flash, who seems to be the only person that knows just the right way to push Peter’s buttons until he opens up about whatever it is he was trying to force down. He did not bring May or Tony, the only parental figures he has. He brought, out of everyone else, Harley, to wherever, _whatever_ , this place is.

It means something. Everything, maybe. Most things, at the very least.

They emerge, as Peter had guessed, only a few minutes later, pushing past a low hanging branch and stepping out where the simple little path grows, expands into an entrance for a rather large, magnificent field. It feels like a pocket of light among the rest of the late fall, early winter blandness, the sun streaming through the gaps of the trees, like a spotlight illuminating what looks to be hundreds upon hundreds of dandelions, both blooming yellow and puffball white, and knee high grass. Peter pauses when they enter the field, gazes out at it with wide eyes, before stepping forward, shuffling carefully through the grass until he’s standing in the middle of it all, spins around to take it in.

Harley approaches softly, slowly, and asks, “How’d you find this place?”

Peter purses his lips, squints through the sunlight and looks up towards the sky just as another breeze blows past, shifting the hair resting against his forehead and causing the random strands that are sticking up in various places to sway, just a bit. It’s eye grabbing, and Harley has to force himself not to stare, instead narrows his focus on listening when Peter says, “My, uh… Uncle Ben, before he…”

There’s a wince, minuscule and barely there, but Harley sees it. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Peter clears his throat. “Anyway, when he was still—y’know—he used to take me on walks. I had, like, really bad asthma back then, so I couldn’t really participate in gym that much without having some kind of attack, and he would take me on the walks to make sure I still got enough exercise for my age. I guess my dad was super into going on walks when he was growing up, too, ‘cause Ben would always tell me a lot of stories about all the stuff my dad would find, all the places he would discover. Ben said it was like he had a bunch of secret hiding spots, all around the city, in the forests, wherever he went.” When Peter says this, he says it with a smile, fingers toying with his camera absentmindedly, and Harley is, frankly, completely enamored by the sight, can’t look away, couldn’t even if he wanted to. “Ben brought me upstate one time, just to see something new, and we found this place, and it became our kind of little hiding spot, just for us, you know?”

And that, right there, is the significance.

When Harley casts his eyes around, takes in the clearing for a second time, slowly lets his gaze sweep over branches and grass and trees and flowers and all these little pieces of nature, he appreciates it as something more than he did when he first saw it all. Now, it means more. Now, it’s a place that Peter, as a child, would come to with a loved one, with family, and feel safe. This is a sliver of Peter Parker’s life that Harley feels unworthy of being able to see.

“It’s beautiful,” he offers, voice a bit hushed, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter everything this is. He can’t damage it, must preserve it with the utmost care and caution. He has to keep it safe.

Peter hums, a content sort of noise, and kneels down in the knee high grass, the tips of the blades now brushing his shoulders as he reaches forward for a white puffball of a dandelion. He plucks it gently, carefully, as to not disturb the flowers around it, and he turns his head to look up at Harley with a grin. “I haven’t been here in a really, really long time,” he admits. He holds out the dandelion, offers it to Harley with that boyish happiness written over his features. “You want one?”

Harley eyes the dandelion, frowning. “To just, like, keep?”

“No.” Peter rolls his eyes, pushes himself back up to his feet with the flower in hand, careful to keep it in tact. He gives Harley a funny look, scrunched up nose and an amused smile. “To make a wish.”

“It’s a dandelion,” Harley feels the need to point out.

Again, Peter rolls his eyes, only now it’s more of an exasperated action. “It’s a wishing flower,” he says, holding the flower up a little bit higher, just to make it clear what he’s talking about. Harley’s frown deepens, confused, and it makes Peter pause. “You’ve never heard of it being a wishing flower before?”

Slowly, Harley shakes his head. “No. I’ve never… no.”

Peter considers this for a moment, clearly caught off guard. “That’s so weird,” he murmurs. “I thought that everyone knew about that. You really never even heard about it?”

Again, Harley shakes his head. “Never.”

“Huh.” Peter looks at the flower in his hands with his lips pursed in thought, considering his option, before he holds it out to Harley again. “Well, fine. Let me show you what it is.”

Though Harley feels completely unsure of what to expect, he takes the flower into his hands and watches as Peter plucks a second one, quick and efficient. Harley takes a moment to examine the white puffball, takes in the soft looking seeds sprouting from the center, stem long enough to brush against his inner wrist as he holds it lightly, afraid to damage it with too strong of a grip.

“So,” Peter says, drawing Harley’s attention back to him. He’s brought his own flower a bit higher into the air, level with his nose, only a couple inches or so in between his face and the seeds. “It’s, like, kind of a similar concept to birthday candles, right? How, y’know, you make a wish, and you blow out the candles in one breath, and hopefully your wish comes true.” Harley nods to show that he’s following, glances between Peter, Peter’s flower, his own flower, and back again, trying to make sure he doesn’t miss a single moment. Peter lowers his flower, just a bit, but keeps it a few inches away from his face. “Well, it’s pretty much just that. You make a wish, and then you blow off all the seeds in one breath.”

Harley looks down at his flower. “That’s it?”

Peter hums his affirmation. “Yeah, that’s it. You just—”

And then Peter brings his flower closer to his face and closes his eyes, holding that pose for a moment, and it takes a few seconds for Harley to realize that this is the wish making part of the process, holds his breath in fear that making a noise will somehow ruin the entire thing, and watches, enraptured, as Peter’s flashes flutter when he opens his eyes again and he takes in a slow, deep breath, before blowing it out, steady and strong, aiming his air at the flower and sending the seeds through the air in a beautiful show of white, fluffy specks floating delicately through the air. He blows all of the seeds off with fairly simple ease, doesn’t run out of air too soon or come across any stubborn pieces trying to hold on, and once the flower no longer has any seeds left, he turns to Harley with a wide, beaming grin.

“See?” Peter holds up the empty stem proudly. “Just like that. Super easy. Now you try.”

Harley’s not sure he gets the point in wishing flowers, but he can definitely see the appeal, feels the childish kind of wonder that tingles under his skin as he looks at his flower with a newfound sense of purpose. Making wishes means nothing, he knows—it won’t guarantee anything, just like blowing out the birthday candles won’t bring a miracle and wishing on a shooting star can’t give you answers to the questions that are eating you up inside. It’s all naïve and unnecessary, and he’s always been a believer of that, but it’s not hard to let himself want to believe otherwise. In this moment, he wants to make a wish and have hope that it might come true. He wants to put his heart on the line for the sake of magic and wonder and other magnificent things that don’t follow the laws of science.

Peter lowers his voice, speaks, almost, in a barely there whisper that nearly gets caught in the wind, as if sensing that Harley is getting lost in his head. “Go ahead,” he says, gently. “Make a wish, Harley.”

And, after a moment of pause, he does.

He feels like he’s moving through molasses, actions slow and drawn out, the world playing the moment in slow motion as he carefully, carefully, carefully brings the flower up to his lips, lets it rest there, for a drawn out few seconds of nothing, while his mind pieces together what he wants to wish for, and—

_i think my wish is you_

—he lets his air out in a steady stream of an exhale, his eyes fluttering shut as he blows away the flower seeds, sends them drifting through the air. Like with Peter, he has no problem getting all the seeds in a single breath, tapers off with plenty of air left and sucks oxygen back in greedily, lets his eyes blink back open again to take in the empty stem that had, just a moment before, been a full white puffball, just like the many others surrounding them, littering the grass in eye catching intervals.

“Woah,” Harley murmurs, eyes snapping up to take in the way the seeds he just blew off get caught in the gentle breeze, swept away and disappearing behind the wall of trees on the other side of the clearing. Something about it, about that moment, whatever it was, settles a bit heavily over his chest.

A flash goes off, sudden and bright, and it makes Harley’s attention snap so quickly that his neck complains a bit at how fast his head moves, whipping around to look at Peter, who is holding up his camera and sporting a small, sheepish little smile. “Sorry,” he says, not sound all that apologetic. “I can delete that if you want. You just, um—you looked really photogenic right there, so…”

Harley looks down at the camera, brows twitching together, just a bit. He’s not exactly against Peter’s tendency to take random photos of people, has been the center of Peter’s picture taking habit since they became friends, features in various Instagram posts alongside scenery and landscapes and flashes of moments that Peter always feels the need to capture in the moment. Still, he hasn’t gotten used to it yet, either, can’t grasp what is could be about himself that makes him worthy of being in front of the camera, or being captured so many times, so frequently, for seemingly no reason at all.

But Peter adores his photography, adores every picture he takes, even the blurry ones and the shaky ones and the ones where the focus just didn’t cooperate or the coloring is just a little off.

“It’s fine,” Harley tells him, because it is. More than fine, really, even if he doesn’t understand.

Peter hesitates, just for a moment. “Are you sure?”

Harley nods. “Yeah, I’m sure. That’s what we came here for, right? For you to take pictures?”

“Well, yeah,” Peter says, bunching up his shoulders in a clunky shrug before letting them drop again. He appears a bit sheepish when he averts his eyes to his camera, starts to tinker with the settings and sinks his teeth into his lower lip before saying, “I also just wanted to, like… I dunno. Show you this place, I guess. Probably seems kinda dumb, but I just—I thought you might like it, after moving to the city and stuff.”

There’s a few seeds, from the wishing flower that Harley blew out, he realizes, stuck in Peter’s hair. It almost looks like snowflakes, only they don’t melt away, and they look just as soft to the touch as Peter’s curls do, and Harley finds himself staring at the little fluffy specks of white as he lets himself process Peter’s words, takes in how sweet the gesture is, thinks of how he had been reminded of home when they were walking the path here, the familiarity of being surrounded by nature rather than skyscrapers.

Peter Parker is beautiful, and it’s more than just his appearance that makes him so.

But two months isn’t very long, and it doesn’t matter that it feels like they’ve known each other forever, doesn’t matter that it’s crystal clear, how much that naturally gravitate to one another, like tied to opposite ends of the same rope, never to be too far from the other, because it’s still just two months. Eight weeks, approximately fifty six days, and that is not enough, not for the lingering thoughts on the edge of Harley’s brain, lurking and ever present and threatening to climb up his throat without his consent. He cannot tell Peter that he finds him beautiful, because that would be an admittance to feelings he is not ready to share.

Though he thinks that everyone should tell Peter that he is beautiful, because he fears that it’s likely Peter has yet to hear it, and if he has, he hasn’t heard it nearly as much as he should.

Still, Harley will not be the one to say it, at least not today. Instead, he bumps his shoulder against Peter’s with a small, fond smile and he tries to act like he isn’t filled with the swirling galaxies that all ache to be dragged into the orbit of Peter Parker and never, ever leave. Peter returns the smile, brushes his hair back and lightly laughs when he discovers the flower seeds in his hair, combs them out with his fingers and crinkles his nose and Harley’s chest positively aches with the need to say so many things that he can’t find the words for. He clears his throat, averts his eyes to look around the clearing again, and he asks, “What makes you decide what’s gonna be a good picture and what’s not worth taking a picture of?”

“Trial and error, I guess,” Peter tells him, seemingly unbothered by the sudden question or the way it so clearly avoids the earlier subjects. “I spent a long time taking pictures of anything and everything, and, over time, I kind of just started to be able to guess what would make a good shot and what wouldn’t.”

Harley hums, nodding slowly. “Can you show me?”

Peter frowns, looks at Harley unsurely. “Show you what?”

“What would be a good shot,” Harley explains, gesturing around them vaguely. “Like, what here catches your eye, and what can you tell isn’t worth even trying? Try to teach me the difference.”

“I don’t know if that’s really something I can, like, teach,” Peter says, laughing lightly, though he’s already looking around with interest, scanning their surroundings with a particular sort of glimmer in his eyes. “A lot of it is knowing camera settings and how to use them, too. Do you know how to do that?”

Harley shrugs. “No, but you can teach me those, too.”

Peter purses his lips, but it’s clear he’s fighting off a smile. “Fine,” he relents, pulling his camera up to remove the strap from around his neck. “I’ll try, but don’t be upset if I suck at explaining it, okay?”

“Promise,” Harley says, nodding his head as he leans over to get a look at the camera screen.

Peter doesn’t start yet, narrows his eyes at Harley and asks, “Is that a real promise or an artificial one?”

It’s a simple question, asked in a mostly teasing way, but if there’s one thing Harley values, it’s keeping his word, so there’s no humor, no joking, nothing but genuine intent when he meets Peter’s eyes and tells him, “I never make artificial promises, and I never break the promises I make.”

For a long moment, one that feels, in some ways, like it might never end, neither of them move, their eyes locked like that. They don’t blink, don’t shift away, don’t glance to the side—nothing. Both of them sit there, faces only a few inches apart, and they keep their gazes focused on one another, as if they’re searching each other’s very souls, looking for reasons to doubt, to mistrust, the other.

Peter looks away first, though neither of them can really pinpoint how much time has passed by the time he does. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip and rubs at the skin under his nose, a bit of a nervous tick when he isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. “Okay,” he says, tone a bit softer than before. He clears his throat, repeats, “Okay,” just a little bit louder and a little more firm.

“Okay?” Harley repeats. “What’re you sayin’ okay to?”

Peter nods, bringing up his camera and angling it so that Harley can see it. “Dunno,” he replies, flashes Harley a little smile that makes his eyes sparkle subtly in the sunlight. “You wanna learn this or not?”

Harley can’t possibly stop himself from returning the smile as he says, “Show me what’cha got, Parker.”


	2. Chapter 2

**ii. a concert**

Music speaks a language of its own.

It isn’t only in the lyrics, meaning written into each chord, every note that twines together to create the instrumental piece. There’s beauty in the flow of the sound, in the shock waves of the bass as it vibrates the floor. Peter—though this feels like it shouldn’t be true—has never actually been to a concert before. Never had the time, the money, was always so focused on other things to allow himself the experience. There are more important things to do, after all—school work, family, responsibilities, his job at the Daily Bugle, Spider-Man, and everything in between. As much as Peter loves art, to listen to it, capture it, look at it, even tries to create it on his own, he’s never been able to appreciate it up close and personal like this.

By his side, Harley is _beaming,_ bouncing himself on the tips of his toes with the beat of the song. Peter isn’t even sure who it is they’re seeing right now, but it’s a band that Harley claims to adore, insisted that it would fit right up Peter’s alley. Apparently, when he was still in Tennessee, he drove six hours to attend a concert for these people before, and now, he’s brought Peter to see them, too. They’re caught in the middle of the crowd, close enough to the stage and the speakers to be able to feel every note of the songs they play, but far enough back that it isn’t overwhelming. Though, it’s hard to get used to, the constant jostling from what feels like the hundreds of people surrounding them, elbows bumping into elbows and toes stepping on the backs of shoes. Peter is accustom to the normal brush of people passing by on the city streets, but this is more confined and harder to ignore. He feels claustrophobic.

“Dance, Parker!” Harley shouts, barely audible over the booming music flooding through the air. He’s got sweat glistening on his forehead and his hair is frizzy and sticking out in random places, his eyes are squinted with his grin and he won’t stop moving, reaches over to grab Peter by the hand and flails his arm, just a bit, laughing as he does so. Peter can’t help the smile that twitches at the ends of his lips, but he doesn’t start dancing like Harley is, only moves his arm and clutches Harley’s hand and feels enraptured by the way he seems to shine under the flashing, colorful lights.

Peter is not one to dance, is the thing.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it—he does, and when he lets himself do it, it feels similar to breathing, like letting out a long exhale after holding his breath for a little bit too long—but it’s hard to find reasons to anymore. There’s so much on his plate at any given moment, so much he has to do, so many places he needs to be, that simply putting on a song and stepping around the room in time to it isn’t much of an option. Being here, at a concert, shouldn’t be an option either, but there had been something undeniably and indescribably enticing about the way Harley had asked if Peter wanted to go to the concert with him, head tilted to the side and smile so soft and gentle, voice coming out tinged with nerves, similar to how he had sounded when they first met, shuffling the papers in his hands and asking if it was alright to be peer review partners. Peter was hopeless even if he wanted to say no.

Harley, himself, is addictive, Peter believes. Three months and seven days since the day they met eyes across the room, and Peter can’t imagine ever going back to a life without Harley in it, can’t fathom the mere thought of not waking up to stupid texts and spending nights studying until they’re delirious. There’s something undoubtable about his presence, something that brings a sense of comfort that settles over Peter’s skin like a warm blanket. Harley is a slight accent to his words and a lopsided smile and two dimples, one on each cheeks. He’s gentle music playing from his phone while he goes over the curriculum with Peter to make sure they’re ready for a test and a scrunched up nose when he takes a bite of May’s attempt at chocolate chip cookies and a chiming sort of laugh that seems to float in the air.

Right now, he’s all teeth as he grins, sweat damp hair curling against his forehead and bouncing when he bobs his head along to the song. Peter knows he should be more invested in the actual concert—it’s his first one, after all—but his eyes are caught on Harley, stuck on him, taking in the way he sways and shimmies his shoulders and sings along to the songs. He’s long, slender fingers that wrap around Peter’s wrist, their other hands still intertwined, and there isn’t really enough room in the crowd for this but he manages to turn them until they’re face to face, so many people pressing in around them that they’re practically flush from chest to hips to knees. Peter feels his face flush, both from the overwhelming, heavy warmth filling the air, and also from how close they are and how much he—how he—

God, he wants to kiss him.

(“You should just do it,” Michelle had told him, leaning against the counter in May’s apartment while Peter worked on making pancakes for the two of them. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her hair was pulled up in a pony tail and she was wearing the glasses that she usually didn’t like wearing pushed up the slope of her nope. When he made a half hearted, noncommittal sort of noise, she twisted her lips into some kind of weird, knowing smile and said, “Seriously, Peter. Go for it. He’s not gonna stop you.”

Peter flipped the pancake and stared down at it and tried to ignore the ache in his chest because he missed Harley, wanted to call him and see how his morning was going and how his night was after having last minute plans and having to miss their study night—Ned had ended up missing it, too, which was why it was just the two of them at that moment, which was, perhaps, why he had ended up talking about this at all, always somehow opening up to Michelle without meaning to, always ready and willing to pour out his soul and let her inspect all the little pieces. He had seen Harley the day before but he was always so desperate to hang out with him, to be around him, found comfort in his presence that he couldn’t explain. “I don’t know,” he said, mumbled it half heartedly under his breath as he plated the nearly perfectly cooked pancake and went to pour more batter in order to make the next. “I just… I don’t think he—you know? Not me.”

Michelle didn’t respond right away, simply allows the two of them stew in a moment of silence that was filled only by the scrape of the spatula against the pan when, a minute later, Peter flipped the pancake to cook the other side. “You know he likes you, right?” she eventually asked. “Like, you see it, don’t you?”

“He—” Peter stopped, sunk his teeth into his lower lip so hard that he nearly drew blood, and shook his head with brows knitted together and a frown tugging at his lips. “Not me, MJ. He doesn’t—not me.”

“What are you saying?” Michelle questioned, looking genuinely confused. “Why not you?”

Peter waved a hand vaguely through the air and grimaced down at the pancake. “I’m just… I’m not it. I’m not—I don’t know. I just don’t think he could… like me, I guess.”

Michelle tilted her head to the side and asked, “Why not?”

He couldn’t, for the life of him, explain why he was so sure.)

Under these lights, the flashing and the colors and the beams of brightness that sweep across the crowd, Harley looks damn near angelic, illuminating his boyish grin with neon greens and a subtle pink and a sudden flash of orange mixing with the strobing blue, and it should hurt his eyes, Peter knows—it’s all just a bit too much, everything around him, but his attention is so focused on the boy in front of him that all the overwhelming elements of everything else fades into the background.

Harley squeezes Peter’s hand and positively beams at him. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

_(“Why not you?”)_

Peter swallows around the lump in his throat.

“I don’t know.”

He isn’t sure which question—

_(—he’s answering, but—)_

—it seems to fit equally—

_(—for both of them.)_

“Let loose, Pete,” Harley tells him, has to raise his voice to shout over the bass and the music and the endless shouting and singing along of the crowd. “Have fun, okay? You deserve to have fun sometimes.”

Something about that makes Peter laugh, as if they’re not being constantly jostled by the people jumping to the music around them, as if they aren’t having to yell to hear one another, as if this is just a normal conversation that they’re having while hanging out together. “Only sometimes?” he asks, grinning.

“All the time!” Harley corrects, his eyes positively sparkling and his hand that’s gripping Peter’s wrist moving up to settle against his shoulder instead, thumb resting unbearably close to the side of Peter’s neck, and the touch makes his breath hitch in mild surprise, eyes going a little bit wide. Harley is still beaming at him, apparently not as invested in the band playing as Peter had assumed, doesn’t seem at all bothered to not be looking towards the stage. He leans forward and Peter foolishly hopes, for a moment, that what he wants so bad is going to happen, but then Harley turns to talk more directly into Peter’s ear in order to not have to shout so loud, saying, “You’re always so _stressed,_ okay? It’s so obvious, how, like, tired and tense you are, every single time that I see you. Let me help you have some fun.”

“I’m not—” Peter shakes his head, bites down on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not _always_ stressed.”

Harley pulls back to level Peter with an unimpressed sort of look, clearly not buying Peter’s half assed attempt at deflection. The lights bounce off of him, like they’re dancing through the air, and Peter tries not to let his gaze get caught when he sees how it reflects on the thin layer of sweat shining on Harley’s skin. “You are,” Harley tells him, brows raising up to his hairline. Peter purses his lips to try and hide the fact that he wants to frown, and Harley moves his head again, goes from Peter’s shoulder to cupping the back of his neck. “It’s not a bad thing,” he adds. “It’s just ‘cause you care so much about everything, but that doesn’t make it easy to watch as you run yourself ragged. Take a break, okay? Just—don’t think about other things or worry about something else for the night. Just dance to the music.”

Peter just stares at him for a long, drawn out moment, part of him wanting to defend himself, wanting to insist that he has fun and he isn’t always stressed and he wasn’t worrying about stuff or thinking about other things, but he can’t deny that he’s been doing just that, whether consciously or not. No matter where he is or what he’s doing, he always feels like he needs to be doing something else—he could be patrolling right now, helping people who need him, or getting the assignments he hasn’t completed yet done in order to turn them in when they’re due, or—or—

“You’re thinking too much,” Harley says, almost smug as he smiles, all crooked and toothy and amused as he presses his thumb to Peter’s pulse and tilts his head to the side, brows quirking. “Stop that.”

“I don’t—don’t really know how to, y’know—I don’t know—”

Harley tips his head back with a dramatic groan, and it would make Peter laugh but all he can see is the expanse of skin on Harley’s neck and how the lights reflect against it and he wants to—wants to lean forward and press his lips against Harley’s pulse and just feel his heart beat for a little while, maybe thinks that urge is inspired by the feeling of the pad of Harley’s thumb still resting on his own pulse, a bit of warmth and weight that makes his heart skip. Before he can linger on that thought—or, worse, actually act on it—Harley is tilting his head forward again and giving Peter a faux glare. “Have you seriously never given yourself five minutes to just—just, not think about everything else? I mean, you’re _eighteen,_ Pete. You can’t seriously tell me you’ve never given yourself a break.”

Peter sinks his teeth into his lower lip, looks over at the stage and lets himself wonder what it’s like to be up there, in front of the crowd, singing at the top of their lungs and jumping along to music that they wrote. It makes his chest feel tight, the idea of being the center of attention like that, but something about the idea feels exhilarating, too. Letting loose, like Harley said—Peter isn’t as tense and uptight as he can come across, and he isn’t sure Harley’s had the chance to see that side of him outside of when he’s putting his focus on photography and lets most things fade to the background, but he can confidently say that, from the moment his parents died and it became his responsibility to make life as easy as possible for Ben and May, he’s never truly given himself a break. There’s never been a chance, never been a reason.

His silence becomes answer enough, because it’s only a moment later, with Peter staring at the stage and Harley staring at him, that Harley lets out a curse. “Shit. Never?”

“I…” Peter shrugs, a bit helplessly, not knowing how to respond. Three months and seven days is plenty of time to make Peter feel dizzy with how much he adores Harley, but it isn’t enough to properly cut open his chest and show off all the pieces inside, no matter how much he thinks he may already trust Harley enough to see it all and not judge him for it. Maybe that’s a bit terrifying, the fact that he already trusts him so much—trusts him in a way that took years to trust everyone else, after so little time. Still, even if he may be willing to hand over the scalpel that’ll let Harley see all of his insides, now isn’t the time nor the place to do it, and Harley seems to understand that without it having to be said, because he squints at Peter for a moment, looks over at the stage, and then nods to himself.

“C’mon,” Harley says, gently squeezes both where he’s cupping the back of Peter’s neck and where their fingers are still intertwined. Peter looks at him curiously, and he grins, starts to sway along to the music and bounce lightly on his toes. “We can talk later, yeah? For now, let’s just dance. Have some fun, okay?”

It’s hard to think of any reason not to do as Harley says when they’re still standing flush together and staring at one another, firmly together in the sea of people around them, and all Peter can see is Harley, all he can focus on is Harley, all he can hear is the music filling the air and the way Harley’s heart seems to beat in time with it. He feels Harley on his skin and tastes want in his mouth.

Dizzyingly, completely, enraptured in Harley.

“Okay,” Peter agrees, and he clears out everything—Spider-Man, school, work, everything—and just lets himself fall into this, lets himself become enveloped in what this is rather than everything it isn’t. Harley smiles at him and lets go of his hand and the back of his neck and brings his hands down to Peter’s hips to guide him into a jumpy, swaying, shimmying kind of motion, and Peter doesn’t need the guidance—again, he’s not unfamiliar with dancing, despite not having the time to do it anymore—but he lets Harley lead his movements, if only for the sake of putting his trust into Harley’s hands and seeing what he does with it, seeing how he reacts, and Harley just grins a giddy sort of grin and moves the two of them together and makes an encouraging sort of noise when Peter starts to really move with him.

“There ya’ go, city boy!” Harley shouts, over the music, over the hundreds of heart beats all crammed into the same room, over the bass and the cheering and even the faint sound of cars on the street outside that only Peter’s enhanced hearing is able to detect. Peter can’t help the grin that splits his lips when Harley starts to sing along to the song, laughs loud and unabashed when Harley jumps a little bit too high and nearly trips on his feet and bumps into the people in front of them, who only look mildly annoyed as he spews out apologies. Harley glares at Peter, but his smile doesn’t falter or fade.

Peter leans in and rises on his toes to level his mouth next to Harley’s ear and tell him, “Clumsy much, country boy?” When he pulls back again, he quirks a brow, grin snarky and teasing.

Harley huffs, grabs Peter by the face and turns his head so his lips are practically brushing against the shell of Peter’s ear. His breath is warm and Peter is glad that the undignified squeak he lets out at the sudden proximity is drowned out by the rest of the noise around them. “Don’t be a dick, Parker.”

“Don’t call me Parker, Keener,” Peter retorts, shoving Harley away from him, though not very far, just pushes him back enough to be able to see his grin and see as he lets out a laugh. It looks like he’s going to reply with something, keep egging the conversation on, but Peter was starting to get lost in the moment of this before the banter started and he wants to delve into that again, wants to soak in the feeling and let go of everything other than this. He shakes his head at Harley, shouts, “I thought we were dancing?”

Again, Harley laughs, a breathless sound that Peter wouldn’t have heard without his enhancements, before he bobs his head in a nod and tips his head back to properly holler the lyrics of the song, shouts them up to the ceiling and the flashing lights and lets his voice become one with the hundreds of other people that are singing along, too. Peter doesn’t know the lyrics, doesn’t know the song, doesn’t know much of anything in this moment, but he tips his head back and cheers anyway, lets the thrill in the air light him up like a bolt of electricity running up his spine, jumps with the beat and puts his hands in the air when everyone else does. His senses melt into it, until all he knows is the music and Harley.

(‘You should have kissed him,” Michelle will say, two days later, when Peter is over at her dorm room pouting because Harley has to work with someone from one of his other classes on a project they have together and can’t hang out with them for the night. Ned will nod along to show his agreement, though he won’t voice it, because there will be a pen in his mouth and he’ll be hunched over a textbook with a lighter in his hand. Peter will not respond, will only roll his eyes and hunch in on himself and let out a frustrated huff when Michelle insists, “Seriously, Peter. It was the perfect opportunity.”

Peter will glare down at his hands and grumble a little, “He wouldn’t want to kiss me.”

The pen will drop from Ned’s lip as he whips his head up to level Peter with an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, right?” he’ll ask, sounding bewildered. When Peter doesn’t respond, he’ll let out a shrill kind of laugh and say, “Dude, he’s, like, head over heels for you. You know that, right? It’s super obvious.”

Michelle, looking smug, will gesture toward Ned and quirk a brow, as if to say, _I told you so._ Peter will shift his glare to her and shake his head, telling them, “No, he—he’s not. He’s _not._ It’s not me, okay?”

“What’s not you?” Michelle will ask, looking frustrated and confused. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s—” Peter will stop, will sigh and wonder if there are even words to properly articulate the mess of thoughts swirling around in his head. On a good day, he may be able to explain some of the depths of his brain, but even then, having it make sense is a struggle he will always have. “It’s hard to… put into words,” he’ll eventually tell them. “It’s just—complicated, I guess. It doesn’t… doesn’t matter.”

It will not settle his friends’ curiosity, but they will not continue to push.)

When the concert has ended and the audience has fled the warm venue and shuffled onto the cold streets of New York, Peter finds himself shivering, already missing the atmosphere of the show, the heavy air that came with a large crowdy persistent but kind of comfortable over time. They parked a couple blocks away from the venue and have to make the walk back in a light drizzle of rain and underneath the moon. Peter feels a pep in his step that makes him bounce and giggles under his breath and still feels the vibration of the bass in his skin. Harley and him knock their shoulders together, share a grin and a light, out of no where laugh and it’s just so good. All he can think about is how much fun he just had.

“You look better like this,” Harley tells him, as they make their way down the sidewalk.

Peter feels his brows twitch up as he processes those words, then asks, “What do you mean?”

“You’re not so tense,” Harley says, wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders and leads the way around the corner and towards their parked vehicle. “It looks good on you, being just— _happy_ , y’know?”

“I’m happy.” Peter responds.

Harley smiles at him. “Yeah, but you’re just—you’re _extra_ happy right now. It’s—good.”

Peter isn’t sure how to responds, just blinks up at Harley, gnaws on the inside of his cheek and then ducks forward as soon as they’re within reach of the car, rounding to the front passenger side door and staring deliberately down at the toes of his shoes as he waits for Harley to dig out the keys from his pockets and unlock the doors, then scrambles to get inside the car and out of the rain.

Harley gets into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with a slow breath, and Peter watches the way his chest rises and falls for a long moment, isn’t sure why his eyes seem stuck but doesn’t bother to fight it, like he likely should have. He watches Harley pull on his seat belt and sees the way he flashes Peter a wide grin.

“Thank you,” Peter tells him, after they’ve pulled into the street and started the drive back to May’s apartment. “This—means a lot. And I had—I had fun. A lot of fun.”

At a red light, Harley looks at Peter and smiles, soft and pleasant. “You deserve to have a good break.”

Peter shrugs at him. “I don’t think I really know how.”

“Well, I’ll fix that, then,” Harley says, nodding to himself in some kind of determination.

Peter tilts his head slightly to the side, curious. “How do you plan to do that?”

Harley shrugs. “Dunno. But I promise you, darlin’—I’m gonna figure it out.”

Not knowing how to respond, Peter just sinks back into his seat and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is spidey-lad if you wanna bug me!


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